


These Dreams Are Made of Things

by wanderlustlover



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:45:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustlover/pseuds/wanderlustlover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he lets Danny sleep in.</p><p>Which is to say sometimes he doesn’t set the alarm, and he lets himself sleep in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Dreams Are Made of Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alemara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alemara/gifts).



> **Challenge:** What would your character think if they woke up next to ________.  
>  **Recipient:** Haole-Cop

Sometimes he lets Danny sleep in.

Which is to say sometimes he doesn’t set the alarm, and he lets himself sleep in. It’s rare, happening like blue moons and snow in Hawaii and day’s when Danny loses his voice, but it happens. Those slow, golden mornings he hoards in his head like the world, this too hungry wolf, will come sniffing for them and it will be a bloody battle about who is keeping what.

Mornings his eyes open slow and confused, before he remembers he turned it off. What the reason was for that choice. For not getting up to swim or run, to keep his schedule. Mornings, when the slow blink of sleep caked eyes, brings him fast and still barely half-awake, into the puddles of gold light and warmth exploding faster in his gut than a grenade could ever go.

Stomach a tangle of sore, aching warmth even as his vision focus on the curve of Danny’s shoulder, and the muscles at the side of his stomach, dappled in early dawn sunlight. The way he blurs into the gold of the sun, with this barely there, but definitely no longer rebelliously not, soft tan from surfing with Kono and days at the beach with his daughter.

It’s almost impossible to remember he’s real for a few seconds then. Quiet and so still. The morning made up only of the distance crash of the waves lapping at the land, and the palm trees brushing against the house. But not Danny. Danny who is only moving to expand and contract his lungs. No endless barrage of hyper filled sound. Not endless accost of fluid movements.

Just that steady breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out. 

He never makes it long enough. He’s come too far, he’s seen too much. He makes it only as far as the ache in his stomach reaching a fast boil against the sunlight becoming molten inside his gut. He’s too old to hold on to dreams like a young man anymore. He’d rather face the cold of alone and empty, than hold court with the faces of a dream.

His fingers brush slowly over Danny’s skin, like it will all collapse under the smallest pressure. Like he expects, every still passing second, that it will cave and the nightmare will start, or the reality of the dream will break in. All these weeks, barely making months, an illusion of wishful thinking and far too desperate self-immolation.

But it happens the same each time, too. The snuffle of awareness. The shift of the blonde head buried in his pillow. That irate, annoyed grumble of growly warning about rousing sleeping bears. That comes at the same time as his hand is captured under an angry hand. Dragged down further across Danny’s stomach, or up his chest.

Captured like the cost of one woken second. The world going still just long enough for Steve to count to one, before there’s a flurry of movement, and even more huffy sound. Danny’s body turning on a dime, from stillness to attack. Burrowing a nose into his neck, arm across his chest, knee over his legs.

Taking him hostage, against _morning_ , and _normal_ , while that mutter of threats is barely audible. A growl to be obeyed, but refusing to wake up enough to be clear.

It’s the best dream Steve has possibly ever dreamed, and even as he starts wheedling insults or arrogant promises into Danny’s mess of blonde hair, warm and amused, and tracing his hands wider and bolder down all the skin bodily blanketing him now, he knows it’s better than that.

Better because even golden, it’s messy and clingy, hot and pissy — and _real_.


End file.
